


Clexacentric: The Re-Written Season 3

by commandergreeneyes



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: AND HAVE TOO MUCH TIME, F/F, No Major Character Death, by lockerghost, i am bitter, inspired by The 100 Reborn, the 100 headcanon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-25 19:05:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6206917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commandergreeneyes/pseuds/commandergreeneyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm basically rewriting season 3. All the ships are shipped. The main focus is on Clexa because no one cares about the ALIE story line. Jaha doesn't exist and Murphy never left. There are no fucking drug chips and Lexa is safe.</p><p>There will be lots of fluff. I'm not planning a lot of Clexa angst, so if there is any I'll specify in the notes, because after 3x07 im really sensitive to being uphappy and seeing sad things related to Clexa so this will be a happier, yet realistic fic. Just lots of lovin. Lots of smut. For everybody. I hope you guys ship bellurphy as hard as i do, bc theyre perfect for each other.</p><p>EDIT 3/31/16: probably wont edit or update until I'm done with Fantasies Become our Legacies soooo<br/>LMFAO this show is too fucked up to fix</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Woods and The Camp

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The 100 Reborn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6165100) by [lockerghost (orphan_account)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/lockerghost). 



> Just a glimpse of Clarke in the woods after she left Arcadia, I mean camp Jaha but he don't exist so. No angst in this chapter. There is, however, implied Lextra. 
> 
> ;)
> 
> I'm also on tumblr (!!! Be my frand) as commandergreeneyes and wattpad too, because I had no chill and couldn't wait to get the fic written so the original is on there too

_"Seeing their faces every day..."_

Clarke's feet slipped between scattered sticks on the forest floor, padding along the soft soil; she crouched, scanning bushes for movement.

_"It's just going to remind me what I did to get them here."_

It was a daily ritual, running her last words to Bellamy through her mind. Part of this ritual included reminding herself of the faces in the Mountain, burned, peeling, scarred- dead.

 _Maya_. Then ... the _children_.

Jasper's teary face, red with anger. The welcoming smell of cooked food and warm bodies becoming cold mingling in the air.

She shuts off her mind as she blinks the twilight sun out of her eyes, and the bushes rustle. Thinking had cost her too many kills, too many nights going hungry and sad and cold.

It was a rabbit this time, a runt, its ears twisted into a ropey knot covered in radiation burns and patches of hair. The small puddle of blood pooling around the throwing knife in its ribs always satisfied Clarke in some sick way- it made her think she was some kind of sociopath. But this was survival, right? The hunt was a means to an end.

How she enjoyed was besides the point.

Thinking is what Clarke was running away from, but it's all she seemed to be able to do. It had been a month and a half since she and Bellamy had pulled the lever. Since she'd pulled the trigger on Dante, watched his blood seep over his wrinkled skin, horror on his face. For my people.

Clarke was good at convincing people.

So good she even convinced herself of many things- the most recent being that she'd lost her humanity. But it crept back up on her in the strangest of moments: a whispered _"Yu gonplei ste odon"_  with each kill, the guilt at how good their flesh tasted, her persisting thoughts that the forest and whatever in it is good- it's here to comfort her, to hide her.

But Clarke can't hide from herself.

The sun was setting as her runty rabbit roasted over a teensy fire, the guts on a stone lying in the embers, drying for jerky tomorrow.

The ears and heart tasted the best.

Clarke settled back into the shallow ditch she'd scraped out for her bed; it was located on the side a small valley of the forest- surrounded at the top by trees and large boulders, a thick cover for her most recent nest. She was actually starting to get attached to the ditch- it curved to the way she slept in fetal position, pillowing her body as best dirt can.

And if she woke up early enough, she could climb the tree at the rise of the hill and feel the sun kiss her face as the dawn greeted the ground.

Darkness set in and night takes over, stealing in like an old friend. By the light of her spluttering fire, Clarke fished out her small clay pot of red dye and a shard of mirror from her knapsack, a makeshift bag made from her blue jacket.

She poked around in the pot, holding it up to her eye, measuring how much juice was left- not much. She'd need to gather more red hyacinth flowers tomorrow, grind them up for more dye. She applied what little she had left to the greasy roots of her scalp, using the mirror and firelight to see what blonde had appeared in the last week. She'd taken for granted how easy life had been before she'd had to deal with the upkeep of red hair.

Clarke settled down when she finished. The cool juice coating her hair made her shiver as the night chill rolled in. The fire spat when her boot stamped down on it.

As usual, Clarke gathered all her few possessions into her knapsack and lay down, putting the sack on her tummy and crossing her arms over it- ready to flee.

Her thoughts turned to Niylah. The cute tradepost worker. Her sweet smile. Clarke felt a familiar bloom in her abdomen. She sighed. Eyes still closed, her hand crept down to her crotch, applying pressure over her pants to relieve the heat. Unbidden, she thought of their night together, messy and careless and sweaty. Clarke's early departure in the morning. She didn't deserve the pleasure, but she gave it to herself anyway, a firm grip on her breast with one hand and the other working madly at her clit as she dragged an orgasm from her guilty body.

She only felt a tiny bit better as her whole body cooled down, and she fell asleep thinking of who she really wanted to fantasize about.

* * *

 

Clarke started awake to whoops and screeches. They were distinctly human, not the animal noises she was familiar with. She knew she still smelled of her sex and that her panties were still wet, her fingers a bit pruney, but that was the only reference she had to how much time had passed.

The new moon was gray in the sky. No light filtered through the trees, no leaves rustled, no owls hooted. Everything was exactly still- Clarke wasn't sure if she was even awake.

She sank lower into her ditch, wishing she could melt into the ground and not hear the panicked beat of her heart, the sporadic cries below, the rush of the blood in her ears, the small gasp of air escaping between her lips with every exhale- her body was still high from her pleasure.

When Clarke managed to calm down, she mustered the courage to drag herself to the lip of her ditch and peek into the valley below.

Torches.

Clarke counted at least eighty handheld fires in the valley, all fanned out in groups, clearly searching for something. Grounders, Clarke realized; Skaikru only has four members for each group of a search party- they can't afford more manpower than that- and this force had eight torches per group.

She watched, blue eyes drifting, wandering, for what seemed like hours. The searchers seemed to be undaunted by possible enemies hearing them, letting loose random shouts every few minutes. A few times a mishandled torch lit a bush on fire, clearly visible for kilometers in the inky night. Laughter always accompanied this mistake, raucous and brash, and an unknown and unseen hand battered out the flame within moments.

Clarke grew cramped on her perch, belly down, the feeling of her clothed breasts pressing against the ground both uncomfortable and turning her on. God, she was always horny in the most inconvenient of times.

Around two in the morning, by Clarke's guess, the grounders still hadn't broached her hill, and they began to return to a point in the middle of the valley, converging on a large clearing that grew brighter with every returning torch. After the last stragglers made it to the clearing, a cheer went up. Clarke raised an eyebrow- _what the hell was going on?_

She lifted herself off the ground, not bothering to wipe the dirt off herself. Clarke grabbed her jacket knapsack and tied it around her waist, jiggled her arms and legs to return the blood flow. Like hell she was going to stay here and wait. This was the first time she'd seen expansive grounder activity in this sector, and she was going to find out why they were here.

And maybe, just maybe, a small part of her wanted to see another human face, hear another human voice.

Clarke began stepping carefully down her hill, letting her instincts guide her feet almost noiselessly across the ground.

The grounder camp was only about a kilometer away from the ditch. When Clarke was half a kilo away, she began using cover to hide her movements when a thought struck her- an idea. A brilliant one. Maybe a reckless one.

One that could get her killed.

One that could get her answers.

Clarke knew scouts would be posted about 100 meters ahead. She knew she looked like a grounder, dressed like a grounder, smelled like a grounder. She could speak fluent Trigedasleng.

She knew that she was a reckless 18 year old who no longer had the responsibility of her people to think of.

So she grabbed some dry branches and tied them together with some grass strands, using her spark rocks to make a crude torch. Smudged extra dirt onto her cheeks.

And she began walking.

Chin low, red hair front and center, stride confident and even paced.

50 meters from the camp, a shout came down from the trees _"Who are you?"_

 _"Niylah kom Trikru!"_ Clarke gritted her teeth and hoped the grounder didn't know Niylah personally. She then realized she had no idea which kru Niylah was part of.

She may have died just then, for that lie.

But a _"Pass!"_ barked down in response, and she kept walking, a cocky smirk lifting her lips. Straight into the glowing camp.

* * *

 

Clarke lurked near the sentry fires at the rim of the clearing, taking in the sights and sounds- and smells. These grounders needed a shower. So did she.

The camp was a temporary setup, no tents or stalls erected, and the crowd of searchers were gathered around a makeshift wooden platform in the exact center of the clearing. Periodically, cheers and shouts of agreement went up, blocking out the voice of the speaker on the platform.

Clarke was too short to get a good glimpse of the speaker. All she could really make out was the soft glow of a large fire, or a fuck-ton of candles. Clarke snorted humorlessly to herself, earning a glare from a nearby grounder, because who would transport that many flammable items in the middle of a wooded forest?

Suddenly the grounders roared in Trigedasleng: _"Till dawn's first light!"_

Clarke looked around in confusion but joined in on the shout, if pitiably so. _What the hell are they doing until the morning?_

The speaker disappeared from the platform, and the grounders dispersed from their gathering, milling about, stuffing torches in buckets of water. The camp grew darker, and Clarke could see now that the main source of light was from the candlelit wooden riser, a makeshift tent pitched at the back, where the speaker must be.

Smaller grounders, teenagers maybe, began lighting what looked like candles and taking the remaining torches from the searchers, placing the lights in sconces on trees and boulders scattered among the bedrolls and possessions on the pine-needle covered ground. If Clarke didn't know any better, she'd think the candles were for mood lighting.

The grounders seemed expectant, throwing glances at one another, clapping each other on the backs for a long day's work completed, peering back up at the lone tent strung up on the platform.

Clarke remained near the rim, warming her hands on a log fire meant for the sentries. She kept a careful eye out for anyone staring too intently at her. _Act normal._ Suddenly, as if by some silent command, the grounders all picked up their things and moved them away from the center of clearing, dumping their bags and bedrolls at the rim of trees marking the end of the clearing and the start of the woods. The center floor of the camp lay bare.

Clarke tried not to panic when the grounders started laying their things near her feet; she avoided all eye contact and intently stared at the black silhouette of her hands of over the red fire- but the grounders all around her didn't care. They were still focused entirely on the wooden platform, and they were eerily quiet.

Clarke kept sneaking glances at it herself, blinking spots out of her eyes, but then realized she'd be less conspicuous if she just stared openly at it like the rest of the grounders, patiently waiting for... something. Someone?

And then, unbidden, unexpected, and unwelcome, Clarke's entire body imploded, her heart turning to acid in her chest.

The speaker had reappeared on the platform.

The speaker was Lexa.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clexa's first interaction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know what they say... hate everything you write- but keep writing

_"Tonight, we will not acknowledge tomorrow! Tonight, we will celebrate..."_

Lexa's voice brought it all back.

The Mountain. The death. The blood.

Clarke's breath rushed out of her, and she doubled over, clutching at the pain in her head and her gut, the world disappearing as burning memories flooded her consciousness.

_Maya. Anya. Dante bleeding out._

_"No! You stay with Clarke!"_

_The soft velvet of Lexa's lips. The comfortable authority of her voice._

_The smell of blood on Lexa when she returned- when she informed her of the deal, the betrayal._

_Her people._

The crushing weight of guilt, anger, hurt, sadness, responsibility, love.

Clarke couldn't hold it in any longer, and she let out a frustrated, keening wail- one that was covered by a well-timed victorious roar of the grounders. Lexa had finished her speech.

Clarke fixated her gaze on the woman on the platform, her hair, her sash, her sparkling skin. Clarke's entire focus was on her, she could see nothing else, think of no one else, stomach heaving in bile and acid, warm to her fingers and toes with hatred.

_Blood and warpaint mixed on her cheeks, green eyes dark._

_"May we meet again."_

_Clarke fell to her knees, clutching her head. The thoughts, the memories, the pain..._

_Grounders had begun jumping around her, waving their arms around in some kind of dance._

_"Princess"... how soft Finn's skin was when the knife sunk into his abdomen._

_The heat of Lexa's skin as she pressed her lips to Clarke's mouth. Her hand on her waist._

_Clarke, kissing her back._

Clarke let out a low groan, gravelly and slow, and she pressed her forehead to the ground, breathing on the scent of pine, forcing her to the present.

She kept breathing.

* * *

 

The grounders were having some kind of party.

Clarke stayed seated on the outskirts, observing. Recovering- well, momentarily. It wasn't long before curiosity and anger got the best of her, and she was off, moving into the undulating bodies.

How on earth they thought jumping around and waving their arms to drumbeats was dancing, Clarke didn't know, and she had to avoid flailing elbows as she pushed her way through the dizzying crowd.

They all smelled of some fermented brew, similar to what Monty and Jasper had distilled before, but this scent hit like a wall with its thick, brined tang. Some of it splashed on Clarke's shoulder, and she flinched when a smiling grounder thrust a flask at her, offering a drink.

She stared for a moment, but the grounder was drunk off her ass and a goofy smile split her features. Clarke grabbed the flask from her hand and kept moving. The grounder went back to smiling and dancing.

Clarke kept moving, jostling grounders left and right, taking long, brooding sips of the drink on her way toward the platform. The liquid tasted like elderberries.

Clarke was getting closer to the riser, and getting tipsier, with every step. There wasn't enough in the flask to make her lose control, but just enough to feel the fire flowing through her throat and her inhibitions gone with the beat of the drums.

She approached the platform, a long wooden floor lifted about four feet off the ground. Lexa's tent was less than 10 meters away. She would be right behind the animal skin flaps closing the entrance.

No one else was on the platform, or looking at it anymore, so Clarke chose the least candlelit corner and clumsily climbed onto it, throwing her chest forward and reaching her knees up like a little kid.

And then there she was. Knocking at Lexa's proverbial door.

She pushed aside the flap without further hesitation and ducked inside.

 

* * *

 

The first thing that struck her was the scent of candles, and the second thing was how many of them Lexa could fit into one tent.

The third thing was Lexa herself.

She was sitting with her back to Clarke, hair halfway unbraided and in full Commander gear. She was on a small stool in front of a table covered in yellowed papers. The sound of the drums had covered the noise of Clarke's entrance. The walls of the tent were thin.

Clarke didn't breathe.

Lexa sighed and put her elbows on the table, her jaw placed in her gloved hands. Clarke could imagine the furrow in her brow.

Clarke bent down, and slipped the dagger out of her boot.

Lexa remained still.

Clarke had never moved so slowly in her life. She padded up behind the Commander, checking each step with a toe for creaky floorboards.

Clarke began to see the individual curls of Lexa's hair, the frayed strings on the back of her jacket.

Lexa shifted on her stool, and Clarke whipped her hands up, fisting one into Lexa's hair, pulling her chin back and exposing her slender throat, to which Clarke pressed the dull edge of her dagger.

Lexa stiffened, not knowing who it was or that the blade was dull. She kept her eyes focused on the arm clutching the dagger. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed.

"Hello, Heda." Clarke whispered.

Lexa recognized Clarke's raspy voice, full of raw emotion, but she didn't move.

 _"What do you want, Clarke kom Skaikru?"_ She said slowly, voice low.

Clarke shuddered; that voice betrayed her, that voice was the crux of her problems; the one to blame- for everything.

Lexa began turning her head ever so carefully, sliding her eyes up to Clarke's face. She tilted her chin more, opening her neck to Clarke's weapon. After a loaded pause, Clarke met her eyes, and Lexa wasn't sure if it was a trick of the light, but it looked like they were filled with tears.

Lexa drew out the silence, eyes connecting. Then a whispered _"I'm sorry"_ escaped her lips, and Clarke blinked, the tears spilling over onto her grim face. Clarke's grasp on the dagger loosened. Lexa reached up, carefully, advertising her movements so Clarke wouldn't be caught off-guard. She took Clarke's wrist between her hands, lowered the knife from her throat. Clarke allowed her to guide her arm down to her side, her mind both in hyperdrive and completely thoughtless at the sight of Lexa.

Lexa's green eyes saw right through Clarke's soul. Her calm, her authority, her gentleness, it radiated off of her in waves, and Clarke knew she was done for. She met those green eyes again as Lexa made to stand, her hands raised, open palms facing Clarke in a gesture of peace.

But Clarke didn't want any gestures. A rush of searing hatred and blame rose up at the sight of Lexa's attempt to placate her, and then the knife was back at Lexa's neck, breaking skin, and Clarke was screaming.

"I hate you! I hate you I hate you! AhhHHHH!"

Lexa, terrified, yelling Clarke's name, tried to grab her shoulders, hold her off from slitting her throat, but the attack was brief, and Clarke was pushing Lexa across the room, throwing her into the side of the tent with a heave.

Lexa crashed to the ground, mostly out of shock. Her hands and ass rammed onto the wooden floor, heart beating in her ears and drums and happy cries still emanating outside. The tent didn't collapse. No one had heard Clarke. They were safe. Technically.

Lexa touched her fingers to her neck, looked up calmly when her hand came away with dark blood. Clarke's grip was loose on the knife, eyes shut, mouth open in a huge, silent sob.

Lexa inhaled sharply, standing in one lithe movement, crossing the room with her arms out to embrace Clarke before she remembered- she is not mine to touch- and she stopped several feet away, staring forcefully at Clarke's downturned face.

"I... I.." Clarke growled between sobs, shoulders bent. "... hate... you."

Lexa's voice was barely above a whisper. _"Clarke..."_ The way Clarke's name rolled off her tongue gave Lexa humming shivers throughout her body. But she didn't move. Lexa didn't budge.

Clarke's brow furrowed as her sobs quieted.

Lexa could see the pain on Clarke's face. All she wanted, everything that Lexa wanted, was to make that pain go away. For it to vanish, like she wished the space between them would vanish. She wished she could heal Clarke with her touch and her words, but the only healer Clarke needed was time. Time, and trust.

"I never meant to turn you into this." Lexa said.

Clarke blanched, and raised her eyes slowly, glaring through her arched brows. "You..." She started. Took a deep breath. "You didn't _mean_ to do this. To me. Didn't _mean_ to?" Clarke's glare turned to fire, and she took small, threatening steps forward as she spoke.

The space between them vanished faster than Lexa expected, and despite her previous wish, she hoped Clarke would stop moving.

"You think this is all your fault?" Her voice rose higher with every word.

Lexa blinked.

"Well IT IS! I _became_ this when you chose to betray my people! When you chose to betray _me_!" Clarke's lip was curling. "Do you have any _idea_ what it was like? To kill innocents?"

"Yes." The answer was firm, quiet. Heartbroken. Lexa's throat was closing. She knew every aspect of grief that came with hard decisions.

"Then why?!" Clarke screeched. "Why, Lexa?"

Lexa stepped forward- now they were barely a foot apart. "Clarke," Lexa blinked again. "If I could have, I would have chosen you. And you know this-"

"No! I don't want to hear that! I want-" Clarke paused, and suddenly her face turned to stone. "I don't want to hear any of this. I don't want your justifications."

Lexa recoiled like she'd been slapped by the hatred dripping from Clarke's words.

And then, just like that, Clarke left the tent and Lexa's life just as quickly as she had entered it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what did you think?! clarke's a bit grumpy, maybe. MAYBE.


End file.
